Out of My Mind
by dreamgenie
Summary: Alex's POV to start with at least. Where I want 2 certain beloved characters to be near season 3. Spoilers for season 2/8. GAlex implied. Introspective stuff.
1. Chapter 1

Hi there! This is my first fanfic -pls be gentle. Thanks for reading.

**It all belongs to Kudos/BBC - no copyright infringement intended - except for all the mistakes they are mine - its unbeta'd**

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"Bolly. Bolly. Bollllyyyy".

She could still hear his frustrated voice echoing through the hospital monitors. They fuzzed, the white noise now hissing painfully in her ears.

Her breathing was coming hard and fast, panting. It was all slipping away.

Everything flashed out in a blaze of blinding white light except for the figure standing in front of her.

"Molly. Mols"

The small figure turned around, in pigtails and a red gingham dress clutching a large troll doll.

"Do you like my birthday shoes Mummy?"

She glanced down and saw ruby slippers flashing silver as Molly in what seemed like slow motion brought her heels together.

Click.

Click.

"There's no place like home," Molly whispered.

Click.

It was that dream again. She was falling. Black silk and red satin twisting around her in the endless space as she struggled to grab hold of something, anything.

***

She came back slowly, her weary body relieved to have something solid beneath it, a bed at least. Her eyes fluttered, slitted. It wasn't the bright lights of the hospital, but a dim cosy glow.

Her eyes adjusted to the low light levels, and she let out a long slow breath.

It was her room, her bedroom in the house before it all happened. Where she had been so happy before everything happened. The explosion, her parents dying, her world being turned upside down and inside out.

She looked around, soaking in the charming details of it all. Her pink stereo, soft toys and books that she'd loved as a child. She was wearing a girlie white nightie. She plucked at the soft material and sighed. Still not real, still not home, still somewhere in between. She grasped at another thought of where she should be but it slipped away.

She rubbed her forehead as her other hand grasped at the book lying on the bed next to her. She gripped it hard, knuckles going white. Narnia – the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.

A tear slipped out, almost burning as it tracked down her cheek. Hadn't she been through enough already? Not ready to deal with that memory yet again in some unknown place, and she willed herself to let it go and go back to somewhere, anywhere that at least existed in more than a dream.

"Alex".

"Mummy".

Alex stayed still, afraid to move unless the apparition disappeared.

Caroline Price moved towards the bed and sat down. Alex mercifully felt the bed move and shift as she did so. She gingerly reached out a hand towards her mothers face, hesitant.

"Come here Alex".

Alex threw her arms around her mother and the torrent of tears began. For not being back where she should be, for Molly, for everything that had and hadn't happened.

Finally they broke apart and Caroline gently wiped the tears from her daughters face.

"I'm so glad I could be here for you, Alex".

"But where is here?"

"That's the trick then, isn't it. I can't tell you everything. I know who you are to me now and I can help you a little."

"Where am I?"

"You are where you need to be. Safe. Do you remember what rooms mean in dreams? Different aspects of the conscious mind. You are here because you need to heal. You haven't had an easy time of it my dear. You need some down time."

"But I was going back, going back to Molly?"

"You were and you weren't. You always such an impatient, brave and stubborn child, Alex." She smiled warmly at her daughter. "I am so glad that I got to see the woman you have become. But you need to be patient. It all takes time, that's what this is about."

"Then, was it all real?" running her fingers through her hair – damn - still layered.

"Yes and no" Alex huffed in frustration. "I can't help but speak in riddles. You are not ready to go back to either time at the moment. The past where you ended up originally when you went into a coma is not the true past but it is related – an alternative reality if you like. What happens in that world though, does have consequences, it does bleed through to what you think is reality. They are not all your constructs, Alex" Alex brow frowned in confusion. Her memory felt patchy, blurry like she was seeing it through textured glass.

"Can I get back to Molly?" Alex pleaded for the dream of her daughter. It seemed like it was further away than ever.

"That's up to you. This is your mind, your puzzle to solve. You'll be given a piece at a time. When you are ready you will be offered a choice". Caroline put her hand up to Alex's lips to stop her immediate answer, and then reached out to take her hand. "Take your time to figure it out Alex. It is all relative here in your mind. Just remember – everything here is significant". Alex saw her mother smile and squeeze her hand, and as quickly as she appeared her mother had gone.

***

"Everything is significant," she said as she prowled the confines of her childhood bedroom. She had tried the door, once then twice, harder beating her fists against it futilely until the pain in her side and head made her stop. Acceptance – she had to accept that she was here until the powers that be decided she could make her decision. It was stupid, it was as crazy as travelling back to the 80's while she was in a coma. Why not – her life had been a roller coaster ride since. She wished she'd asked her mother more questions, but sensed that her mother had said all she could.

"Okay then why am I here?" the room was still softly lit – bedtime. It was always a treasured time, a time when she could have her father to herself. Her father, her breath caught. It still hurt. She'd existed back in time, throwing herself into her work, her other life so she didn't have to deal. Maybe this room was a place where she could work through what happened, without distractions. She was after all so easily distracted. She picked up the book she dropped before, finding a folded piece of paper. It was a picture the young Alex had drawn, a sadly familiar clown, with pointed hat, holding a bunch of red balloons. She wanted to crumple it, rip it, tear it to shreds. No, she sighed that was the easy way. Anger at her father would not help her now. It surprised her, the strength of it. She'd thought she had worked through her feelings about the death of her parents as an adult and as a child. Twice – she'd been through hell twice. Then inspiration struck – there was something else significant in this room – her diary.

She stumbled over to the other side of the room, still feeling weak. Taking the white book out from its hiding place, she wandered back to the bed and began to read.

By the time she had finished the tears, again were rolling unbidden down her cheeks. She had forgotten. Forgotten how much she had truly loved and adored him as a child. The diary was full of all the wonderful things they had done together, and although he was dedicated to his work – he was also dedicated to his family. That is where his hurt stemmed from – this absolute devotion had no room for anything other than the perfection of the family unit he had placed on a pedestal. No shades of grey – all or nothing. That is what he had chosen in the end. When the white was marred by the affair it became black and he had condemned them all to the void. She had only been thinking of him just as the sad angry clown as an adult, hadn't moved past it. As much as she loved him, she knew she couldn't emulate his thinking. Her father was not all white or black – he was shades of grey too. So much for the big brained psychologist she thought. That is why she was in this here in this room.

She put the diary of her younger self back to its hiding place, unsure of what effects on leaving things out of place in her mind would have – if that is where she was. There was a reason why it was her Mum had been sent to her. Had to trust something if she wanted to survive being in a coma in 2 places. She picked up the Narnia book again when another piece of paper fell out. She smiled – it was rough picture of Aslan the lion. She traced the wild mane lovingly, then hissed in pain as the sound of roaring echoed through her head, piercing her skull. No – not ready yet. Her breath came in deep gasps as felt rather than saw Molly in her red dress in the corner. The picture fluttered to the floor.

"You're not ready to open all your presents yet Mummy," Molly smiled.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It was the smell that struck her first in this place. Smoke, booze and garlic, fighting with each other to be the most prominent. That, and the little bit of drool that threatened to escape from the corner of her lips.

She slowly lifted her head from the bar taking in the red and cream stucco walls and wood panelling. Italian restaurant? The name felt fuzzy and complicated on the tip of her tongue. Luigis – she remembered now. She turned half expecting to see her favourite Italian with a ready smile. Construct? That word again. The trattoria was empty, but the glass in front of her was full. How ironic. She clutched the stem, whirled then sipped the wine slowly – delighted to discover it wasn't the house rubbish. She tentatively wiggled off the barstool and placed her feet on the floor. She felt better stronger, better – that was good – yes. So was the wine.

She turned to see if the bar was truly empty and caught her reflection in the mirror at the back of the bar. The truly scary bow in her hair and diamante earrings – Ah the eighties at its worst. She looked down, piece of puzzle sliding into place. Yes she remember going shopping for this outfit, and how much fun it had been. She ran her hands down the very gathered emerald green dress. It was strapless and hugged every curve, coming to rest mid thigh. There were gloves and a wrap to match somewhere. Tart. Where did that word come from? Shaz helped. Yes that it – she was going to wear it to Shaz and Chris's wedding. Then all it came flooding back. Ray, Chris, Shaz and the team. Yes this is where they all came after work to drink, to fight to wind down after the stress of the job. She had thoroughly enjoyed working back then. Some of the methods of policing were of course were madness, but they had made a difference together as a team. Different from where she used to work in the future, it seemed that you never saw the rewards for your work. You were disconnected from those you helped.

She placed her glass back on the bar. Her head was aching again, rubbing it she saw the trattoria door which led upstairs to her flat. Yes she would go there and lie down. She opened the door only to find a blinding white light. She pushed her hand through its incandescence. It disappeared. No good. Off limits then. She staggered back to sit at the table in the corner, next to the mural. Unsteadily she placed her palms on the laminate, the fake marble veins blurring and twisting.

"Careful Bolls. That formica was honed from the hills of Florence," a male voice said out of nowhere.

With a muffled sigh, her head dropped to the table with a light thunk.

Click.

Click.

Click.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N Characters belong to BBC and Kudos_

Another bed, this time the afternoon sun was streaming through the windows. Alex could feel its soothing heat penetrating her to her bones. It felt lovely. She opened her eyes fully and sighed, emotion choking her throat.

"Molly" it was her room. She could smell the strawberry shampoo on her daughter's pillow. She inhaled deeply, and hugged the pillow to her, cherishing the sensation.

"I sometimes wonder if I'll ever get back to you". She stood up and walked over to the window, pulling the flimsy material aside. Nothing but white light, and what felt like the sun at least. Out of the corner eye she saw Molly's mini stereo. Curiously, she turned it on. Lilly Allen blared, soothingly. Thank God – no revolving hits of the eighties here.

She turned the noise level down to something a little less shattering, and walked over to the bookcase. Lovingly she picked up the treasured pieces of her daughters life, running her fingers over them. She plucked her daughters photo album from the shelf and sat down on the bed.

"I miss you Mols". She opened the album and got lost in the memories. Photos of her and Peter. Baby photos, Molly walking, talking, dancing and painting. Christmas and Birthday parties, would she miss all those to come? She came to the last page – photos of her and Molly taken in one of those photo booths you found in odd places. She took it out of the album - silly faces and loving smiles.

"I wonder," she thought, her eyes flicking from side to side as she carefully folded the photos accordion style, and tucked them into her bra.

"It's my mind," she said to no one in particular. She placed the photo album back on the shelf, and flopped back onto Molly's bed.

It felt good to be here. Closer to her daughter. The sunlight made her feel stronger.

"I'll get back to you Molly. I'm not going to stop fighting to be with you." If she died in 2008 would she still exist in 1982. Would young Alex Price's life be any different in this reality? Could she wait 26 years to see Molly? Would it work that way - an interesting question? But it felt good to think that way, that there would always be a small spark – a glimmer of hope. She would never give up trying.

She felt better, still tired, but better. She placed her hand underneath the pillow to bring the smell of Molly closer.

"Ouch" she drew the offending object out. It was a long stemmed red rose, the thorns had pricked her hand. Rose. There was something about roses she was supposed to remember, something dangerous. What about a rose could be threatening? She loved the smell of roses in the summer. The sunlight became brighter, blazing like gold then red and angry, hurting her eyes.

"Roses. Summers." She stammered, her bloodied hand reached up to ease the throbbing of her forehead.

Click.

Click.

Click.

As she came to, she heard a crackling in her ears like an out of tune radio. Synthesisers. She groaned – eighties music again. She frowned, something pricking her chest. She opened her eyes. A long stem red rose was on her chest. She looked at her hand and remembered blood, not there. The pain was somewhere else. She hissed – her abdomen. She gingerly peeled back her top to find a bandage on her left side. Shot there – no she'd been shot in the head. She dropped the rose and took in her surroundings – her study at home in 2008. Books on criminology and psychology lined the walls, her pc and network for her laptop set up, ready for work.

She swung her legs around and stood up from the white leather loveseat. She glanced at the door. The radio would be next door, in the kitchen. Molly liked to have it on while she did her homework. It was annoying her it was just at the level where she could make it out, but not discern the tune. She walked over to the door, twisting the knob. It would not budge. Entry denied.

Suddenly the song surged louder until it was almost deafening. It was Gold by Spandau Ballet. A clue maybe? Gold, roses and Summers. Her mind struggled to make the connection. She'd been shot and obviously and had had an operation. That word flashed too.

Gold. Summers. Operation. Rose. Shot. The words kept firing like bullets in her mind, trying to find that spark that would connect them. She wandered back over to the bookshelves and picked up one of her favourite prints. She was surrounded by irony. It was a photo titled called 'Another Floating Lady' – a woman asleep in white nightgown, her hair trailing and floating in what appeared to be midair, next to a billowing curtain underneath a picture. Surreal, considering the circumstances. Who was the photographer again? Luckily for her patchy memory it was printed in small writing in the corner. King Douglas.

King Douglas. Gold. Operation Rose. Summers. Yes. She thumped back down on the loveseat, head cradled in her hands. She had been shot during Operation Rose. Her head swam – who shot her? Was it Summers? No she remembered him crumpling to the ground, cradled in the arms of another man wearing a long black coat and leather gloves. Her head was starting to throb again. No. No. No - not now she close so close to this piece of the puzzle. She had been shot – did that mean she died back then and if so why was she here?

She glanced back up at the row upon row of books and then fell to her computer. Would her mind let her Google? She laughed, surely she was going a bit mad. Had her presence there at the end of Operation Rose changed anything? She shakily brought her hand to her breast and smiled when she felt the outline of the object there. She still had the photos.

Time to see if she could fire up the computer then. Where had _that_ phrase come from? Oh well worth a shot. She punched the power button, only to discover it was already on. She flicked at the mouse to bring the screen up, only to flinch and jump back again at the glaring screen. There was Molly in her odd red dress and shoes. She was mouthing something at her, screaming. Legs like jelly, she wobbled back to the computer. Her side and her head seemed to pulsing painfully in time with the shouted words, that she was repeating over and over again. Breathing fast she lunged at the power button for her speakers.

The words echoed agonizingly in he ears. She slumped over.

Gene Genie. Gene Genie. Gene Genie.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Her hands clenched. Satin. She could feel the familiar satin and remnants of a headache. An oh so familiar feeling. How many mornings had she woken up here to this sensation after the night before? Her eyes opened blearily – red satin and black silk. She stroked her hand down her familiar nightie, then looked around. Candlelight. She didn't remember having so many candles in the room. It was almost as if it were set up for some kind of seduction. She remembered vaguely the Evan of this time had tried his hand. As much as she loved him and he was a very attractive man – it wasn't right. In fact the more she thought about it the more it gave her the creeps. How she could ever sleep with her godfather and the man her mother had had an affair with? Very Freudian. She had been so confused, but her focus had come clear when she thought of another. The man with the black coat and leather gloves. Why couldn't she see his face? The image slipped away.

She sat up in the bed, thirsty so thirsty. She grabbed for glass of water that she usually placed nearby for such occasions. Instead her hand grasped a bottle, so cold she nearly dropped it.

How puzzling. Why would she keep a bottle of Bollinger in a bucket of ice by her bed? Seduction? And then there was an unfamiliar and embarrassing sensation. She blushed. Where were her knickers?

Bollinger? Knickers? It sounded so familiar, part of her identity somehow.

She quickly went over to her drawers, and grabbed the first pair she could lay her hands on. She put them on and started to pace, still fighting the fog in her mind. That man – always that man. She was making the headache worse by thinking of him. Useless.

Resigned, she threw herself backwards on the bed, unwittingly repeating the sensation of her falling dream. She inhaled shakily when she realised she was not in the bed alone anymore. There was someone else under the covers. No it wasn't Evan, she remembered. Was it him? Molly's voice shouted in her mind.

"Gene. Gene. Gene."

Her breathing was coming in ragged gasps, now on the point of hyperventilating. She fought the invading blackness, she had a name and now desperately needed to see his face. An arm reached over to reveal …

Click.

Click.

Click.

_A/N - Yes there is an actual photo by King Douglas called "Another floating lady". Google and see._


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N Characters belong to BBC and Kudos. Unbetad - mistakes are mine all mine._

_********************************_

She sighed. Her head was pressed against a hard cold surface, and her back ached slightly at her position. Damn, she was really starting to hate that clicking sound. Bollinger knickers. The man in black had called her that. Gene. She had made that connection at least. He was somehow a big piece of the puzzle.

A smell tickled her nose. Heaven, she thought – she was in heaven. The smell of freshly brewed coffee washed over her senses like a wave. How long had it been since it she had had a decent one. She slowly opened her eyes and straightened lest it disappear.

She was sitting in her local café. Molly and her would sometimes come her for a treat after school. A prickle at the back of her neck made her turn around. Molly stood there in what Alex now recognised as her Dorothy costume holding a tray with drinks on it, a beaming smile on her face.

"Hello Mummy."

*********************************

Molly walked over to place the tray on the table and handed her a coffee. She moved haltingly towards her, not wanting her daughter to disappear.

"Its alright Mummy, I'm not leaving you just yet." Molly's small hand slipped into hers. Alex cradled it tentatively, reverently.

"Enjoy your coffee, Mum. I know how much you missed it." Alex smiled and lifted the cup to her lips. She had been right. This was a little slice of heaven. Precious time to spend with her daughter.

They talked about nothing and everything really. Alex skirted around anything to do with the current situation she found herself in, sensing that it would shorten her time here. She watched Molly sip her hot chocolate and just let her talk, memorising the way she spoke, her face animated with life and laughter.

All too soon it seemed Alex was swirling the dregs of her coffee.

"Molly you know I am trying to get back to you. If there is a choice to make – it will always be you. I love you so much," her eyes bright.

"I know Mum. You're a fighter." She got up from the table and placed her arms around her mother's neck. Alex gratefully hugged her, her angel in her arms. "You won't leave me unless you have to," she pushed her Mum back so she could look in her eyes. "Even if you have to go, I'll understand Mummy. You don't need to worry. I will always know here," she pointed at her heart "how much you love me. I know we will see each other again. Sooner or later."

Alex wept, the tears flowing freely now as mother and daughter comforted each other. Molly pulled away first.

"Its nearly over now Mummy." She pressed a small red parcel into her hand. "It's a present to celebrate. Why don't we put some music on?" Leaving Alex's embrace, Molly wandered over to the jukebox, which seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. She selected a track and pressed the button, and turned back to Alex.

"See you soon Mummy" she faded in front of Alex's eyes, a dream dissipating.

"No, not yet." But she was gone.

"See you soon, Mols" she whispered.

She looked down at her present. Unsteadily she fumbled with the red wrapping. A little red car, dropped into her hands. She knew this. Yes it was the Quattro. It belonged to the man in the black coat and leather gloves, Gene. She remembered the secret exhilarating thrill of driving around the streets of London like a hoon with a man who really knew how to drive, with Ray and Chris carrying on in the backseat. His hands confidently wrapped around the steering wheel like a pro as handled it like it was part of him. She trembled as she tried to move the vision from his leather gloves to his face.

She shuddered violently as mind obeyed her command. She took what seemed like her last breath as she gazed into those deep ever-changeable eyes. It hurt to look at him. Her lungs screamed for air as it all went black around her again, as the music that Molly put on before she left swelled to a crescendo.

_He wore black and I wore white._

_He would always win the fight._

_Bang bang. He shot me down._

The little Quattro clattered to the ground.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The discomfort of another smell woke her from her sleep. This time it made her stomach roll in fear or something else. Stale cigarettes, whisky and faint whisper of leather thrown in for good measure. She jerked her head up. His den, his office, sitting at his desk. Her eyes darted frantically around the room. Don't panic Alex – he is not here. She could swear that the cigarette stubbed out in the tray next to her was still smoking.

Her hand was gripping an object hard under the table. The Quattro? She brought it up from underneath the desk. The hand flexed and dropped it on the desk like the poison it was. That tape. The puzzle was all coming together smoothly now. She was getting stronger, she could feel it. Strong enough to hear what had driven a wedge between her and the Gene. She slapped the tape into the antiquated player and listened.

Listened to her voice, remembering the desolation in his eyes when she tried to tell him the truth. Why would he believe her, she sounded like an absolute nutter.

"How could I tell you my secret? You would have had me see the little men in white coats for sure."

"And if you don't know yet – I'm so sorry Sam", she said looking up at the newspaper article pinned to his noticeboard. "Now I'm here I understand too well how it must have been for you".

She rewound the tape to listen to it again. She recognised the stop and start of some judicious editing. Nice of Summers to make it all sound so much worse that it was. She rubbed her neck. What was this choice she was going have? Something nagged her at the back of her mind. They were not all constructs, her mother had said. The tapes were a symptom of what she had felt as impending madness. She did see things, clowns and tv programs that spoke to her. Not normal – but whose to say what was normal in an alternative reality. She was over analysing things – she hated to think that large pile of tapes that were sitting in her flat. Analysing and existing instead of living. If she could make a difference to others in either world that was a good thing. She could not think of it as a dystopia any more. Real people, real lives. By looking for meaning in every little thing anyone did in that world, she would drive herself insane. Her attitude had changed slowly towards the people she had thought of as being constructs. You could not exist in a vacuum after all. Gene was just Gene. Shaz was just Shaz. Suddenly aside for the obvious reasons, she really _really_ didn't want to go back. If she had to go back to 1982, how would she face Gene? Could they move past all that had happened to them in those last few days? She couldn't take back the truths she had said. Try explaining or tell him that she was just a mad tart and now she had been to the doctor she had the right dosage now thank you very much. It was all too hard. Her side was aching again. She was abruptly so tired.

The tape on playback screeched loudly in her ears. She placed her hands frantically over her ears and screamed herself trying to drown the noise out.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Same smell different place, the leather replaced by a cloying humidity that threatened to choke. Her eyes flicked open and closed again as she tried not to panic. Deep breaths. She had been here before – with him. The thick, tangible darkness of the vault in Edgehampton. The only thing that felt real was the floor underneath her, that and relentless heat. Concentrate and calm down Alex. You are not in a void. She ground herself against the clammy moistness of the wall. He had saved her again that day, not from a physical threat so much, but in a way from herself. It was here stripped naked in some ways more than others, that she had truly seen him. Aside from the sexual tension and the fact he was her boss, it was when she realised just how much this figment had meant to her. Gene. Her lifeline, her protector, her saviour, her would be lov….

No not that.

"Yes that, Alex. Lets have a look at that juicy titbit shall we," came a lilting Irish voice. She couldn't pinpoint the direction, it surrounded her, taunting her.

"Summers – you bastard", she wanted to strike out but couldn't move

"I bet it hurts you just a little Alex that I managed to figure it all out before you did. They weren't constructs they were people. Just like you and me. Still easily manipulated. Hunt was particularly simple".

"Don't you dare talk to me about him".

"It was hilarious how easy it was to turn him against you. A bit of mouthy skirt playing damsel in distress was all it really took. Your own damning words helped though – pushed him over. It was so good, so delicious to watch. If you had actually been paying any attention to him whatsoever you might have noticed, but no you were too busy in your own brain trying to work it all out."

"No" she whimpered.

"Yes Alex. And now you are afraid to go back and face him. The Great Alex Drake. Such a disappointment."

"Show yourself and I'll show you how _afraid_ I really am".

"You can't beat yourself up about it Alex." He laughed." I am still in control". The voice was closer now.

"No" she hissed angrily. She felt her back against the wall and started to inch her way up.

"Yes Alex."

"No this is my mind." Yes, she thought that is the key here. It was her mind, she was in control. She felt along the wall to where she thought the door to the vault might be.

"I know what you are doing Alex. It won't work."

She could feel the smoothness of the door now. Her hands desperately trying to locate the handle. If she wanted it badly enough would it appear?

"Come on Alex. Isn't it so much more fun in here – inside your brain analysing exactly what's going and why. Why would you even want to know what's going on out there?"

She'd found the handle but it wouldn't budge. Sweat beaded on her forehead. No she did not want to stay in here, she had to assume control. Had to fight. Footsteps walked towards to her, clicking on the tiles. Then it dawned on her. Summers' voice was right to berate her.

She brought her own heels together. Click.

"Now I am in control Summers"

Click.

"Its about time, Alex"

Click.

Alex smiled. Didn't need to open her eyes to know where she was this time. She felt clear headed and at peace for the first time in a long time – counting back to when she hadn't even been here. Back to the start, back to her room as a child.

Unbidden her mother came into the room, and stretched a hand towards her. "Are you ready to make your choice Alex".

Without hesitation she took it. "Yes".

Her room faded. As her vision returned, she flinched and stepped back. Two doors one painted red and the other painted blue on a floor of black and white checkerboard tiles.

Caroline turned to face her. "Here is your choice Alex. You have struggled so hard to get home to Molly you have almost divided yourself in two. Now you are strong enough to make a choice. Choose the red door and you can go straight back to Molly in 2008 right now. However, you may not be physically ready to wake up. It will be painful, but no more waiting and wondering. Choose blue door and you go deeper into your coma in 2008 and wake up in 1982. There's no guarantee either way."

"So if I go back right now I have less chance of surviving than if I waited." Her hand went unwittingly to her chest, stroking the photo she still had hidden.

Her mother nodded and gave her a knowing smile, reached over and hugged her daughter close. "Choose carefully Alex. I love you".

"I love you too Mum," Alex whispered as she felt her mother fade away.

Alex sat down cross-legged on the ground in front of the 2 doorways. Blue pill or the red pill – enough of the symbolism already, she thought. She sighed – she so desperately wanted to get back to her Molly, she physically ached to take her in her arms and just hold on. Did she want to sacrifice a better chance of getting back in one piece by being impatient? Could she face going back to him knowing that what she felt for him could very well be oh so real. Her thoughts chased each other in circles through her head.

It was an easy decision in the end. She felt strong. Strong enough to fight for what she wanted.

She opened and walked through the door of her choice. Didn't look back. Didn't want to.

_A/N Lyrics from Bang bang (I shot you down) Nancy Sinatra. 1 more chapter to go._


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N Characters belong to BBC and Kudos. Unbetad - mistakes are mine. My thanks to all those who have read, reviewed or faved._

_********************_

He sat next to her bed. Watching. Waiting. Would only leave if he were thrown out. Luckily he had managed to charm the night nurse, and in doing so managed to spend what seemed like endless nights here. He always left before the shift change the matron in charge of the day shift was not so easily swayed.

She was in a coma, the doctors said and it was entirely up to her if she woke up. He'd tried shouting at her cajoling her, talked about work. But she remained pale, lifeless, not the Alex he remembered, fiery, full of passion. Life. Occasionally he would swear he saw a faint smile on her face or the trace of tear, but for the most part she lay so very still. He'd reported these changes to the nurse but she had shaken her head and reiterated that her patient was in a coma.

"That brain of yours Bolls is never still. What's going on in that pretty head of yours?"

He held his head in his hands. A week of not eating or sleeping properly and a good dose of guilt had taken its toll on him. He went through motions, went to work, drank relentlessly and ignored his team except to give orders to Ray. The investigation into Operation Rose was taking up most of his time there, keeping him busy thank God. He might have not been back at work at all except for the quick collar of Jenette Rivens. For a grifter, she'd been an effortless catch, though in some ways he had felt insulted by how easy it had been to find her. How easily she had manipulated him. She had smirked at him the whole way through the interrogation. She was smart in some ways though, knew that telling the truth about her involvement with Operation Rose was the best option, now that she'd been caught. He had seen the doubt in his teams' eyes until that bit of poison had confirmed his story, that shooting Alex had been an accident. He had hated her being the one responsible for clearing his name.

However there were certain things about the case that were not adding up. Boris Johnson and Martin Summers were the main questions and he was pretty sure he was sitting right next to the person with all the answers. The nurse said that she needed human contact, but he had been unable bring himself to even hold her hand. She'd said to him once before that she had no one, and he knew that only himself, the team and Evan had come to visit. He had requested a copy of her transfer file from Hyde, to try and find the daughter that she had mentioned, or anyone else who cared for her. Anything to try and make her fight. The look in her eyes when she had pleaded with him to believe that crap about coming from the future, still felt like a sword in his gut. Remembered the look of desolation in her eyes when he accused her of being a bad mother, of being cold. What had truly scared him the most though was the look in her eyes as her conscience faded away. Shock at his actions, then a terrible acceptance.

He took a gulp from his flask, he should at least try. Hesitantly he reached towards hand, only to be interrupted by a frantic beeping sound. He looked up to her face and saw the sweat on her forehead, reached up to brush her cheek. She was burning up.

He was halfway out the door when nurse and doctors descended.

"What the hells going on?"

"Out. Get out of the way – she's crashing"

"What"

"I told you, Get out."

_********************_

After what seemed like weeks and but were really days he had news. She holding on, the nurses said, by a thread at first but she was getting better. He'd been allowed to resume his nightly vigil, the night nurse told him that she less fitful when he was there. She was still pale and motionless, though he too would swear that she was stronger. He dozed, restless as she was still.

It was her change in breathing that woke him. He watched her through half lidded eyes, she was breathing faster. As he watched the hand closest to him flexed, once, twice.

He bent over to her whispering softly, "Come on Alex, come back to us". He looked at her eyes, watching them shift back and forth under her eyelids. The hand was moving again, reaching up to her chest scrabbling at her bedclothes. He stood transfixed as smooth creamy skin was revealed, her breath becoming more frantic, until her hand found what is looking for. It flopped back out, her fingers spasming around what looked like a piece of paper.

"What the"

"Molly" she mumbled. He looked at her sleeping face, a ghost of a smile lingering on her lips. Her hands were losing their grip on whatever it was and it fell to the floor.

He picked it up – hands shaking knowing that she was going to turn his world over again. It was a series of photographs of her, and what must be Molly. Smiling and laughing with her daughter, she looked younger and older at the same time. She looked about the same age as she was now. Alex's hair was longer and pulled back in plain style but the love he could see in her face when she looked at Molly made her look younger, more carefree.

Her breath was becoming faster again, her hand groping for what it had lost. He was folding it back up when he paused and caught his own breath. He read the time and date stamp on the back 15:30 12 MAY 2008. He tucked the photos into his jacket pocket, knowing that it was the safest place for it, for now. She was whimpering now, her hand frantically clutching at the blankets. Unknowing of what else he could do he took her fumbling hand in his.

"I'll take care of her, Alex". His heart twisted in sweet pain, as her hand settled in his, her lips parted in contentment and she relaxed back into her sleep. Trust. She still trusted him after everything that happened. Everything he had said and done.

Why he deserved it, he did not know. He knew this time though, he would treasure it, her for the gift in his life she was. He didn't care any more about where she came from, where she was going and that she was inexorably dragging him into her world of psycho bollocks insanity. He knew he would be along for the ride for as long as she was here. With him.

_The End. __Hope you enjoyed it._


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